


resurrect america

by tinfoilunicorn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 09:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11249934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinfoilunicorn/pseuds/tinfoilunicorn





	resurrect america

in amber-soaked rooms,  
the aroma of sandalwood coils and wafts about our  
heads; limbs like ivy sprawl over tired furniture  
as fingers graze over skin latent.  
one drink short of complacent, we deftly check  
for reflexes; between layers of flesh and bone, we sense  
the budding anticipation of

CHANGE,

but only heads bob and shoulders roll  
as even WORDS give way to  
gravity; those pesky little prepositions  
do so love to sneak in at the end of our sentences–  
well, maybe my sentences–  
yours always seem  
perfect; so intricately  
perfect, as if a piece of you  
expires in the parting of each breath.

yet we continue to slip into the cracks between  
lucidity and sleep; we are a dreamless people.  
(WAKE UP!)  
our captivation with CHANGE quickly grows  
convoluted,  
disillusioned,  
eventually altogether absent.

perhaps this external (internal?) dialogue is  
nothing more than some makeshift screen.  
(WHAT ARE WE TRYING TO HIDE?)  
maybe WORDS are dangling  
strings; teases, distractions  
that suspend us from all that we fear to  
face.

maybe there is no enigma to solve–  
maybe we are just that transparent after all.

 

when we think we have  
nothing left,  
it is here that CHANGE loses foothold;  
our bondage to CONTROL and  
GOOD INTENTIONS are broken.  
no longer will the cure be force-fed  
capsuled repression; what was the use  
if we were still led to  
(LIED TO)  
search for answers in carnal  
oppression?

no longer will a one-click nation's  
transgressions be hidden by sleight of hand.  
(WHERE IS OUR PRIDE NOW?)  
the law does not save us;  
it condemns us all.

 

there is a shift in the silence; our  
WORDS have no weight.  
it is a slow awakening to acknowledge  
one's own depravity,  
even slower to acknowledge  
one's own helplessness.

but even as we walk amongst  
ashen faces and vacant eyes  
tonight, we will see beyond the shroud;  
we will see the pierced hands and feet, and it will  
break us  
when we realize this self-inflicted INDEPENDENCE,  
this bastardized sense of  
LIBERTY was never about  
ENTITLEMENT–when we finally understand  
freedom has a price.

 

this is what we cling to at our most humble:  
pure,  
simple

truth.

 

in the small hours of that morning, the  
smoke dispels; we blink as necks stretch back,  
heads angle upwards.  
and i watch for the first time  
the curve in your lips,  
the swell in your chest,  
and the glow in your eyes.

at last, we will not FEEL ALIVE but  
be alive,

and we will dream again.


End file.
